When I dove into *Scythe*, I thought I had struck literary gold. The first book was nothing short of masterful—a dazzling dystopian world with a chilling yet magnetic concept. Scythes reigning over a deathless society? Dark, thrilling, and philosophical with every sharp-tongued dialogue. Five stars were never easier to grant. But oh, how the mighty sometimes tumble...
Enter *Thunderhead*, the second book. Don't get me wrong, it was *fine*—the Thunderhead itself was endlessly fascinating and downright creepy (in a *Big Brother* kind of way). But the pace started meandering, and suddenly, the stakes felt oddly diluted. Like ordering a spicy curry and discovering they used ketchup instead. 3.5 stars for some dazzling highs and frustrating lows.
Then came *The Toll*. *The Toll*! Oh, boy. By this point, I was clutching onto hope like a reader stranded in the middle of plot confusion. The book was bloated, chaotic, and felt like it forgot the magic formula of the first installment. The pacing dragged so much it seemed like I was stuck in literary molasses. Two stars—it’s a no for me.
Finally, *The Gleanings* (or whatever you call it). Now *this* felt like Neal Shusterman had a fleeting flash of the brilliance that hooked me back in *Scythe*. The world-building sparkled again, but not without its flaws. It's like seeing your ex at their best friend's wedding—they still make your heart flutter a little, but you remember why you broke up. Another 3.5 stars—commendable, but no fireworks.
All in all, the Scythe series felt like a thrilling carnival ride that slowly devolved into a tepid carousel. It started as genius dystopian fiction, but somewhere along the way, the blade dulled. *Scythe* remains a timeless gem in my library, but the rest? Well, they’re just roommates that overstayed their welcome.